


Three Glasses and a Shot of Something Alcoholic

by Ferrero13



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Host Clubs, Illustrated, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrero13/pseuds/Ferrero13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the job of the footman to greet the guests as they come. It is <i>not</i> his job to play host to any one of them in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This spiralled out of control when I watched a review of a host club in Shinjuku. I have never been to a host club so I have absolutely no idea if what I wrote was accurate. Please take everything with a pinch of salt. I promise to get back to 'Chasing Moonlight' when inspiration strikes again. Please note that Alpha Pair does not play a large part in this story, but it will be mentioned.

It is ten at night. The streets are aglow with neon lights and brightly lit signs in a region of Tokyo where the night life is both peculiar and particular. Occasionally, someone wanders in and is sucked into a world of glamour and dreams for a price. In an establishment along the street that is well known for service and exclusivity, the footman greets each and every guest with their name. On a day like any other, he greets someone whom he has never met. “Welcome. Is this your first visit?”

“Yes.” The footman eyes the camera in the hands of his guest, but otherwise makes no comment. The guest smiles at him.

“Please follow me.” Someone takes his place at the door as the footman directs his guest to a table in a corner of a large and lavishly decorated room. The chairs are upholstered with leather, the tables made of polished wood, and chandeliers hang from the ceilings with their crystals tinkling quietly. Lining the walls is a series of dim glass lamps flanked on either side by heavy sanguine drapes gathered at their waists with golden cords. The footman does not say a word as he weaves through the many intervening tables.

“Please take a seat. Someone new will come by every ten to twenty minutes. If you like any of them, feel free to request their presence for the rest of your visit.” The footman bows to his guest and prepares to leave, but a hand snags the jacket of his suit before he moves away.

“I’d like for you to stay.”

“My apologies. My station is by the entrance only.” He bows again, no less professionally than before, but the hand stays, gripping his jacket with unexpected strength.

“In that case, I will speak with your manager.” The guest continues to smile.

The footman stills for a second or two, and then signals to the man who has taken over for him at the entrance. They appear to communicate with their hands before the footman nods and turns back to his guest. “Very well, I shall accompany you tonight.”

“Thank you. Have a seat.”

The footman walks around the table and sits gingerly beside his guest. He is not the type whom people voluntarily approach, but he silently assures himself that he will be able to provide a fulfilling night for his guest. He has observed too many of his co-workers spin wondrous fairy tales for their customers with spirits and conversation to not know how to play his cards right. They typically begin by introducing themselves. “My name is Tezuka. I am pleased to meet you.”

“Fuji,” his guest replies. “It’s all right. I’m not here to rent a boyfriend for a night. I just want to talk, and you seemed like a good choice. Everyone here is too loud.”

“Forgive my impudence, but I do not think that you have made the wisest choice if you are looking for a conversation partner.”

His guest—Fuji—shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like in one of these establishments. I thought it would feel less like a high school party gone wrong, to be honest. It’s rather loud.”

“If you prefer, we have private rooms that you may use. However, they will incur additional costs.”

“No. This is fine. It’s probably taboo, but please tell me about yourself, Tezuka-san.”

Tezuka folds his hands into his lap. “We have a policy against personal questions. This establishment exists to provide a fantasy. I am afraid that such questions will break the illusion.”

“You’re very honest,” Fuji contemplates. “Let me tell you about myself, then.”

“I do not think that this is well-advised,” Tezuka says. His warning goes unheeded.

Fuji begins to talk, nimble fingers and lithe arms dancing through the air, leaving vague, beautiful patterns painted into the space between them. “I am a photographer, as you can tell. I would give you my name card but you seem intent on not knowing me, so I shan’t. I was a varsity member of the tennis club in university, but there wasn’t anybody fun to play with so I quit. There was one boy who joined the club for about a week. I thought he might’ve been good since there was a bit of a buzz but he left before I could approach him. I never did find him again. I guess tennis and I are just not meant to be. So I went into photography. I never want to miss another opportunity again, you know. I’m about to have my first show in a couple of months but I keep feeling like I just don’t deserve it, like there’s something that I’m missing. Do you know what I mean?”

Tezuka doesn’t, but he murmurs a sound of agreement when his guest looks at him expectantly. He ignores the echoes in his mind that tell him that this is not all he is, that he can be more than a face and a one-night dream—it never does him any good to listen to them.

“I didn’t expect you to,” Fuji remarks, amused. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

“I apologise. I was not trained for this.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody can be trained for real life. You just have to go along with the flow. Would you like something to drink? I heard that hosts don’t get to drink anything unless their customers order it for them. I don’t suppose it would be any different for you?”

“Thank you, but no thanks.”

“I’ll just call for a glass of water, then,” Fuji decides, and, within an hour, Tezuka has finished three glasses of water and shot of something distinctly alcoholic.

Fuji, on the other hand, has not touched a single cup. It is only when his guest leaves and foots a bill that is five times the price for a female customer that Tezuka realises that his guest was male. He looks at the rest of his co-workers, who are singing loudly into microphones with skin-deep smiles etched on their faces, and thinks that he was fortunate that the only customer that has taken a liking to him doesn’t quite mind that he has the emotional capacity of a tea cup and conversational abilities equivalent to a brick wall.

\---

It is a week later when Fuji makes a second visit.

Tezuka does not need to refer to his vast mental library of guests to recall his name. He notices that Fuji is dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans and an oversized sweater, and his camera is once again slung around his neck. “Welcome, Fuji-san. Would you like the same table?”

“That would be nice,” Fuji agrees. They take the same winding route to the table at the back.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” Tezuka says, but, as with Fuji’s last visit, a hand on his jacket stops him.

“I’d like your company again, if you don’t mind. I asked around and it seems that serving customers pays better than being a footman.”

“I make enough.”

“But not enough to get you out of here,” Fuji counters. Tezuka remembers that night one week ago when Fuji looked so contented just talking at him without requiring him to say anything and thinks of how none of his co-workers would be able to forget that this is nothing but a job and would try to flirt with Fuji instead of listening. He takes a seat and drinks another three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic before Fuji leaves.

\---

Fuji comes a third time the following week. Tezuka makes a token attempt to return to his post by the entrance before allowing Fuji to buy him another three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic. He does not have a name card because of his usual position by the door, so when Fuji asks if he will be around on other days of the week he scribbles his number on the pulse of his wrist and tries not to think about how so unlike a woman’s they seem.

\---

Tezuka is in the middle of buttoning up his sleeves when Fuji calls him. There is a conspicuous ceasing of activity from his co-workers as Tezuka answers the call and provides a few short responses to Fuji’s questions about his working hours. When he hangs up, one of his co-workers sidles up next to him and asks slyly, “Is the great ice berg finally thawing?”

Tezuka stiffens his back and says nothing.

“You have to tell us how you do it. It’s the chick who’s been coming every Thursday, isn’t it—the one that actually wants you to sit with her even though you can’t hold a conversation at all?”

“Shiraishi,” Tezuka grinds out. He tries to do up his cuffs around the arms that Shiraishi has wrapped around him to hold him in place.

“She’s cute. I hope, for your sake, that she’s nothing like Koharu—Yuuji hasn’t been able to focus at all after he stopped coming.” Shiraishi claps his shoulder firmly. He quickly exchanges his seriousness for a cheeky wink. “If she wants somebody more exciting, send her my way, yeah?”

Tezuka tenses. “Our guests are not your playthings.”

Shiraishi raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying it as it is. But you must really like her to make an exception. You’ve never done this before.”

“This is none of your business.”

“Does Atobe know? He’s been trying to get you to host for ages. I think he’ll gladly provide you with training gratis,” Shiraishi offers as a compromise. Tezuka can tell that every single one of his co-workers is straining to catch anything at all about the break in his routine—it is the first time any of them have ever seen him so much as touch his phone, much less leave his position by the entrance for longer than it takes to show anybody to a table—but he thinks of Fuji’s quiet smiles and long, melancholic soliloquys about teenage nostalgia and photography, and decides, for once, that he prefers to do the selfish thing and not share his one moment of peace on the job. It has been so many years after all, and he doesn’t want the one good thing in his life to leave him.

“Atobe does not need to know.”

“That’s true. What Atobe doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Shiraishi shrugs. “But be careful, okay? Don’t get too attached. Our customers never stay for long.”

Tezuka raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you think I know that?”

He is the footman after all. He knows who comes and goes better than anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15/03/2015: I'd forgotten to mention that in the host club review that I watched, male customers are apparently made to pay 5 times the price that female customers do. Apparently hosts can be persuaded to act against their sexual preferences for a despicably large sum of money. I'm not sure what to make of that. :/


	2. Chapter 2

Fuji comes on a Monday this time.

Tezuka greets him, walks him to their usual table, and makes no attempt to leave. Fuji looks pleased when Tezuka wordlessly sits himself down beside him without prompting.

“Would you like something to drink?” Tezuka asks politely.

“No, I’m fine,” Fuji answers as always.

They sit side by side in their corner while the rest of the establishment roars to life around them, filling the vast room with off-key karaoke and drunken flirtations. Tezuka chances a glance at his guest, who is fingering his camera, and looks away quickly when Fuji meets his gaze.

“Do you want to learn?” Fuji asks, raising his camera a little.

“I do not think that I should handle something so precious,” Tezuka refuses. He can tell from the way Fuji cradles the camera that it means much to him.

“It’s fine. It’s about time I got a newer model anyway.” Fuji puts his camera back down and reaches out to move Tezuka’s hands away from their folded position on his lap. He gently places the camera onto Tezuka’s lap and arranges his hands around it so that one of them supports the base while the other grips the side. It is unexpectedly heavy.

“Fuji-san, I really do not think that this is wise.”

“Oh, hush, you. I’m your guest, aren’t I? Anything I say goes. Now, hold it up to your eye, yes, like that—take off your glasses if you need to.” As Fuji speaks, he takes Tezuka’s hands in his to bring the camera up to his face. It feels heavy and clumsy in Tezuka’s hands, and the lens seems to be precariously overbalanced, but Fuji’s fingers are kind and steady and, with a little adjustment, Fuji withdraws them, leaving Tezuka to hold the camera uncertainly.

“Is this…correct?”

“Yes,” Fuji says, and he looks so very delighted through the tiny eyepiece that Tezuka doesn’t hesitate to press the shutter. The camera makes a whirring sound that startles him, but he manages to hold onto it firmly enough to bring it away from his face without fumbling.

“I apologise. It was rude of me.”

If possible, Fuji’s smile grows even larger. “Don’t. Never apologise for taking a picture of somebody who is happy.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Fuji hums affirmatively. “I have taken photos of many happy people before. I always give them a copy, of course, and they’re always quick to thank me. They say I make them look beautiful.”

“What about you?”

His smile suddenly turns brittle. “I’ve never had my photo taken before. You’re the first.”

“I cannot imagine why. You would make a good subject.”

“I’m not ‘genuine’ enough, apparently. But it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I’m the one behind the camera after all. I’m not the important one.” Fuji takes the camera from Tezuka. “Are you thirsty?”

“I disagree,” Tezuka blurts out, surprising even himself. “You are important.” It is a struggle to get the words out, and Tezuka is all too well acquainted with giving up at this point, but Fuji needs to hear this, whatever ‘this’ is. “You are…you are trying very hard. I can tell. It is different for everybody and not everyone can be passionate or emotional or wear their hearts on their sleeves all the time, but I can tell that you are trying, and that is good enough. It is enough that you have not given up.”

“Are _you_ speaking from experience?” Fuji teases, but the answer that Tezuka gives is honest.

“Yes.”

Fuji freezes for a moment, but when he comes back to himself he is more animated than before, and Tezuka considers it a job well done.

He drinks three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic before he walks Fuji to the entrance and sees him off with a short bow and the lingering sensation of a hand around his.

\---

Tezuka starts to receive text messages from Fuji throughout the day. They range from completely inane (‘If I have two apples in my right hand and three tennis balls in my left, what is the name of the local grocer?’) to downright mystifying (‘What is the colour of a mirror?'), and although Tezuka’s co-workers are shamelessly trying to harass information out of him, he realises that he is more contented than he has ever been since the time he picked up his tennis racket and found that he couldn’t raise it above his shoulders anymore.

He finds himself looking forward to the nights when Fuji has told him in advance that he would come. On those nights, Atobe praises him for being more approachable but he never asks and never stays long enough for Fuji’s visit, so Tezuka doesn’t say anything to explain himself. Shiraishi pokes him with his elbow each time after Fuji leaves, but Tezuka refuses to tell him anything. He also allows Shiraishi to continue believing that Fuji is female because it is clearly none of Shiraishi’s business.

Exactly one month after Fuji’s first visit, he comes again, and this time Tezuka presents him with a single stalk of rose to commemorate the occasion. He has been told that this is what his co-workers do when their regular customers stay long enough for a one month anniversary. Fuji looks surprised when Tezuka folds his fingers around it, and smiles like the sunrise as they walk to their table.

Once they have settled onto the plush seats, Fuji asks, “What’s this for?”

“It has been a month.”

“So it has. Thank you. It’s beautiful.” As Fuji speaks, he lays a hand on Tezuka’s for the first time. Tezuka curls his fingers around Fuji’s in response.

“I’m glad.”

“You’re not doing this out of obligation, are you?” Fuji raises their linked hands and the rose. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Tezuka takes a moment to think. He tightens his fingers, and says somewhat more quietly than he has intended, “No.”

“I’m not here to be romanced, but I guess it’s all right if it’s you,” Fuji says, smiling, and leans back into the seat. He fingers his camera with his other hand. “I’ve bought a new camera. I don’t need this one any more. Do you want it?”

“I could not possibly accept such a gift.”

“It’s nothing. You’re supposed to accept gifts in your line of work anyway. I heard that someone once received a car, so this is practically peanuts.” Fuji smiles at him. “It’s not powerful enough for the kind of shots I need to take from now on. I’ve been hanging on to it for too long—I can’t move forward if I keep wanting to fall back onto something familiar, so please take if off my hands. Think of it as a favour.”

“Very well,” Tezuka concedes.

Fuji gingerly loops the camera strap around Tezuka’s neck, giving it a gentle pat before squeezing Tezuka’s hand. “Please take care of it for me.”

Tezuka eyes the camera for a while, feels the warmth of Fuji’s hand that seeps through his gloves, and has a sudden thought. “May I take your picture?”

Fuji smiles serenely. “You don’t have to ask.”

“I would rather have your consent, all the same.” He disentangles their fingers and cradles the camera in his hands the way Fuji has taught him over his last few visits, and effortlessly adjusts the settings to bring the other man into sharp focus. He takes a picture and the camera whirs to life under his fingers. Fuji continues to smile.

“You’re getting better at this, Tezuka.”

“Kunimitsu,” Tezuka says, and immediately presses down on the shutter again to immortalise a glimmer of blue eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

Tezuka lowers the camera, but he holds it lightly and is prepared to take another photo at short notice. “My name. You may call me Kunimitsu.”

Fuji’s face lights up and Tezuka reflexively snaps another shot.

“Then please call me Shuusuke,” Fuji says, and Tezuka wants to keep that smile with him a very long time.

It takes a while for them to get used to it, but after three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic, Tezuka thinks in first names and curved lips and lilting voices, and Fuji leaves with a quiet, “Goodnight, Kunimitsu.”

The memory of a rose tucked behind Fuji’s ear burns itself behind the lids of his eyes as he sleeps, and there is an identical image stored as ones and zeroes in his new camera.

The last month has been beautiful, but Tezuka knows he cannot live in dreams forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I threw in a very rough drawing because I had it and I didn't know where else to post it. Please ignore the fact that the rose looks like it's wilting. It wasn't meant to look like that. Also, there are more sketches coming in the next few chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

Fuji comes the very next day at his usual time. Tezuka has brought the camera with him because Fuji is too captivating to be gradually forgotten as memories erode with the passage of time.

They talk about Fuji’s work today. There are mentions of photobook collections and photographs of mountains, and Tezuka tells him about the best mountaineering locations. He manages to finally gather his resolve when he finishes his third glass of water.

“Shuusuke, you don’t have to keep coming,” Tezuka says as Fuji moves to ask for a shot of something alcoholic.

“Where else would I see you?” Fuji tosses back casually.

“You must have more of a social life than just me,” Tezuka says, even as his chest constricts a little at the thought of never seeing Fuji again.

“You’re the only interesting person I know of.”

“You have my number and you know my off days. It cannot be cheap for you to keep coming here to see me.”

“Will you agree to meet me outside of this establishment?” Fuji asks, for once serious.

Tezuka cannot give a response.

“That’s exactly what I thought. It’s fine. If there’s one thing that I have, it’s money. I get paid ridiculously well for a freelancer, and what better cause to donate my money to than someone trying to pay off university debts.”

Tezuka tenses. “I am not your charity case.”

“No,” Fuji agrees. He leans into Tezuka’s shoulder and buries his face in his neck. “But I like you. I want to see you. And I have more money than I know what to do with, so just humour me and take it. Kunimitsu, you’re too good for this place. You’re meant for greater things.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Yes, but I don’t know the rest of them. I don’t know if they play tennis. They don’t sit with me and take my pictures and make me call them by their first names because they’re ridiculous and nostalgic and actual softies on the inside. They probably can’t tell the difference between topspin and a slice and they don’t have hands like yours that keep holding onto dreams even though everybody and their fourth cousin twice removed has told you that it’s impossible. Kunimitsu, just let me clear your debts and pay for your therapy, damn it. It’s not like this isn’t also work for you—you’re here only for the money. Don’t be so stubborn.” Fuji wraps his arms around Tezuka’s waist. “I don’t want you to become like me.”

Tezuka presses his lips to Fuji’s hair. It smells like vanilla and caramel and far too much rain. He doesn’t remember ever telling Fuji about his tennis history, but he is not surprised in the least that Fuji has figured it out on his own. “What about you?”

“It’s too late for me,” Fuji murmurs against his neck. “I looked you up. You were the boy in university who stopped coming. The seniors did a number on your arm, didn’t they? If I’d known you then I could’ve helped you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Tezuka whispers, and pulls Fuji closer to his side. “There’s no point in regretting the past. We can only move forward from here. It’s been years—there’s not much that can be done about my arm anymore.”

“Don’t say that. I can tell that you’re still practising. Don’t give up like I did.”

“But you haven’t given up, have you? That you’re here telling me all these things shows that you’re still holding out hope.”

“You don’t understand. I gave it all up willingly. I wasn’t forced out of my house for being gay, or made to stop playing because of an injury.” Tezuka really doesn’t know how Fuji learnt about his family’s disapproval but he chooses not to ask. “I chose to give it up because it got tiring to be all alone. Tennis stopped being fun. I thought you might understand—once you get to a certain level everybody stops being a challenge and it exhausts me when I can’t get excited about what I do. Even photography is losing its appeal now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being passionate about being passionate.”

“Isn’t there? How far can anybody go with just talent and discipline alone?”

They sit, wrapped up in each other, as Tezuka calls for a shot of something alcoholic to end their night.

When the shot has been downed, Fuji pulls away, but Tezuka catches his hand as he stands.

“You have my number. Feel free to call me anytime—I will be there for you.”

Fuji bends down to cup Tezuka’s face in his hands and gives him a barely there kiss on the cheek. “I promise.”

\---

Tezuka is at the convenience store across his apartment when he spots a magazine with Fuji’s name splashed across the cover. He picks it up and flips through it and it quickly becomes clear that Fuji has been understating his reputation when he called himself a simple ‘freelancer’. He reads about the show that Fuji is putting on in a month at an expensive convention centre and how he has yet to release the theme of the exhibition. He reads expert commentary and analyses of Fuji’s professional reticence and inexplicable talent and skims over fan letters lamenting the lack of any gossip regarding Fuji’s private life (Tezuka nearly snorts at this—it wouldn’t be called a ‘private’ life it were made public after all).

There is a picture of Fuji dressed in an eccentric mix of necklaces, scarves, bracelets, and a casual jacket and smiling placidly for the camera beside a blown up photograph of a dimly lit kitchen. Tezuka wonders if it has always been so easy to tell when Fuji’s smiles are forced.

He adds it to his purchase of rice and miso paste for lunch.

Outside the store, he takes a moment to arrange his jacket—a sorry threadbare thing that was bought six years ago and has yet to be replaced—and bumps into somebody as he sets off toward his apartment.

“If it isn’t Tezuka!”

Tezuka stops in the middle of an apology to find a familiar face looking back at him.

“Yukimura,” he greets perfunctorily. His eyes flicker to the man next to Yukimura. “Sanada.”

Yukimura’s face is flushed with colour from the cold, but Tezuka cannot help but think that he looks much happier than the thin, wan person he knew six months ago when they were still co-workers. That was before Sanada came, paid off Yukimura’s debts, and quite literally swept him off his feet by manhandling Yukimura out of the establishment. Tezuka did not anticipate that he himself would experience the same drama in his life until Fuji wandered in and singlehandedly commandeered his entire attention.

“How are you, Tezuka?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

Yukimura lets out a short burst of laughter. “I’m better than I’ve ever been. I’m sure you remember Sanada.”

Tezuka does, in fact, remember how Sanada used to come every night to convince Yukimura to leave, and even brought an entourage of their friends—the one with the untameable hair, Kirihara, was especially disruptive—during his final visit. He overheard that they’d known each other since they were four, and it was only because of a recent illness that Yukimura stopped playing tennis—Tezuka realises that the game was a recurring theme in his life that popped up with ridiculous frequency, first Shiraishi, then Yukimura, and then Fuji—in favour of recuperation. Medical bills piled up and it became difficult for Yukimura’s parents to pay them off on their own, so he took up a night job while studying to help them. Tezuka does not know the details of how everything was settled, but he knows enough to realise that Sanada must have forked out a despicable sum to buy Yukimura’s freedom back.

Despite Yukimura’s resistance back then he looks happy enough now.

“Shiraishi tells me that you’ve started hosting. I can’t say I expected this.” Tezuka recalls belatedly that Shiraishi still keeps in touch with Yukimura to exchange tips on growing exotic plants.

“Don’t listen to him. I still greet customers by the entrance.”

“Yes. But that’s not all, is it? Has your very own Sanada come?”

Tezuka raises an eyebrow when Sanada gives Yukimura a glare that Yukimura completely ignores. “Not in the way you mean, no.”

“Oh? So there is someone?"

“Perhaps.”

“He must be special. You’ve been insistent about not hosting ever since you started.” Tezuka does not do anything to confirm the gender of his guest. He is not surprised that Yukimura knows him well enough to realise that Shiraishi’s speculations about Fuji’s gender are wrong.

“He is…different.”

“Tezuka, don’t be stubborn—take his hand and leave,” Yukimura advises, and deliberately winds his arms around Sanada’s elbow. “It might be your best decision yet.” He looks pointedly at Tezuka’s left arm.

“That is not for you to decide.”

Yukimura gives him a thin smile that is all apple blossoms and razor blades. “When you’re well again I look forward to playing a game with you.” Tezuka thinks that Yukimura and Sanada are too well synchronised when Sanada conspicuously shifts the tennis bag on his shoulder as Yukimura speaks and gives Tezuka a look that threatens grievous bodily harm if he dares to disappoint Yukimura’s expectations.

“I will contact you when the time comes,” Tezuka says, but does not make any promises.

As they bid goodbye, Tezuka thinks that he will either see Yukimura very soon or never again. It all depends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with Tezuka's backstory and made his injury happen in university in order to sneak it into the story. If anybody needs age references, Fuji and Tezuka are in their mid-twenties. I'm a little sorry that the conbini is a mess, Yukimura's shoulder looks a little like it's been dislocated, and Sanada appears to have a stick shoved up his arse (but that's how he always is anyway). Also, if it isn't clear enough by the style of writing, there isn't going to be much in the way of drama, so I'm terribly sorry to those who thought that this would all culminate in a dramatic event of some sort. I mean of course I hope that the final chapter (whenever I finish editing and finally get round to posting it) will leave an impact, but it's not going to be knight-in-shining-armour Fuji saving the day with bold declarations of love by buying over the whole street or anything as world-changing as that. I've opted to be slightly less idealistic in this story. I hope I don't disappoint.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes two more visits before Tezuka works up the courage.

Fuji is leaning against Tezuka and each of them has a camera beside them. Tezuka doesn’t know why Fuji keeps bringing his even though he never takes any photographs. He brushes honey-coloured locks away from Fuji’s eyes to reveal a face thrown half into shadows and half into stark psychedelic flashes from the partying going on in the rest of the room. Pressing his forehead to Fuji’s, he closes his eyes. “If you’d like, you can book a date for a price. We don’t have to meet here even if you want to pay my bills.”

Tezuka feels a warm huff of air against his cheek. “That sounds nice. How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Not long enough to second guess myself.”

“Will it make you more money?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do it,” Fuji declares quietly. He places a hand around the base of Tezuka’s neck and gives it a light squeeze. “Do you want to play tennis?”

“That would be nice,” Tezuka admits. It has been a while since he has played against anyone.

Fuji presses a kiss to the corner of Tezuka’s mouth. “You’ll bring your racket with you tomorrow, won’t you? Do you need the gut tightened?”

“No. Don’t you have a big show to prepare for? Are you sure you should be spending so much time with me?”

“You’ve done your research, I see. It’s fine. My manager’s used to this.”

“Your manager is used to you getting intimate with shady men working in the red light district of Tokyo?”

Fuji swats at Tezuka’s arm. “Your jealousy and self-deprecation are showing.”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to be so impertinent.”

“You can make up for it tomorrow by showing me the tennis that you used to be so well known for.”

Three glasses of water and one shot of something alcoholic later they set a time tomorrow and Atobe is finally informed—through a couple of official forms and an impersonal e-mail—that Tezuka has not been as diligently greeting their guests as he has led him to believe.

\---

Tezuka tries to wrestle his hair into submission before leaving his cramped apartment with a tennis bag that has seen better days. No matter how much he refuses to allow Fuji to realise just how desperate his situation is, he does not have the funds for a new set of tennis equipment. His shoes have been patched up over and over again, his wristbands washed so much they’ve faded to light grey, and the model of his tennis racket has not been manufactured in years.

However, he finds some consolation in the knowledge that Fuji will not point any of these out.

“Did you have trouble getting here?” Fuji calls as Tezuka approaches the entrance of the tennis club. It looks vast and luxurious and Tezuka wonders if Fuji has splurged on a membership or if he’s just booked a court for an afternoon.

“No.”

Fuji beams. “Shall we? I know the owner. He’s set aside a court for us the whole day.”

“You are very well connected.”

“Not really. He was from a rival school—we only ever talk about tennis. He happens to live in my area so it wasn’t hard to set this up.” Fuji leads Tezuka through an ostentatious air conditioned lobby with large arches in place of pillars and preposterously intricate ornamentations generously sculpted onto each soaring arch. A single crystal chandelier is suspended from the ceiling, casting glamorously fragmented light upon the room.

Fuji notices Tezuka’s raised eyebrows and chuckles lowly. “It’s just part of his personality to show off his wealth. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

“Regardless, I am glad I do not.”

The tennis courts themselves, at least, do not appear overly lavish. However, they are very well maintained, as can be expected of a club that has a budget large enough to have an original Bernini in the lobby. They lay their bags against the same bench and start on their warm ups. Fuji asks if Tezuka has read anything about his tennis.

“I have not,” Tezuka confesses. “I only knew about your job because you were featured in a magazine. I prefer not to know more than what you are willing to tell me.”

“You’re too polite. Well, we’ll see how well either of us has kept up with our skills soon. Rough or smooth?”

Tezuka has the first serve. Blood roars in his ears and he loses himself in the game.

\---

They are still at 4-4 when the sun sets and paints the sky in rose pinks and deep lavenders; Tezuka has never played such a long game even before his injury. He can tell that Fuji’s stamina has weakened considerably, and if the game continues to drag on he will win by virtue of his endurance alone. They are more or less evenly matched in skill, which Tezuka regards as a very pleasant surprise, but he finds it far more satisfying to watch Fuji chase his returns with an intensity and reckless excitement that is rarely present in their usual rendezvous.

“Shuusuke!” Tezuka calls across the court. His voice is hoarse and unsteady and strained from exhaustion. “We should stop. We can continue this some other day.”

Fuji slows to a halt and allows the ball to bounce past him. He glances up at the sky, panting heavily. “I hadn’t noticed that it’s gotten dark.”

Tezuka walks around the net and tucks Fuji’s damp hair behind his ear. “I can tell. Come. It’s not good to miss a meal.”

As they wipe the sweat off their brows and guzzle from their bottles, Fuji asks, “Would you join me for dinner? I’d like to discuss the match.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I rather enjoy your company too,” Fuji says breathlessly, collapsing onto the bench even as he smiles shakily at Tezuka, and then pulls him down with him, “and I think you could do with a free meal and a little extra pocket money that comes with an extended date. You could use it to get yourself a new racket and a better pair of shoes.”

“I would go even if you hadn't offered to pay me for it,” Tezuka says around large gulps of air.

Fuji snags his wrist and plays with the faded wristbands that have been soaked through with sweat. “In that case, would you like to make this a real date? You can even walk me back home and kiss me goodnight.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Do you want me to want you to?”

“Shuusuke.”

Fuji huffs a little laugh. “Kunimitsu, I’m holding your hand even though you’re drenched in perspiration. What do you think?”

“I’m letting you hold my hand even though you’re drenched in perspiration. I’d say you have my answer.”

Fuji actually laughs this time, but he stops quickly when his lungs remind him that he’s just spent the last five hours running about a tennis court playing against an ex-junior circuit champion. He gives Tezuka a brief kiss on the cheek. “You’re precious. Come, we’ll need a shower before any restaurant will have us. Your hand will be much nicer to hold too when it’s dry and smells of body lotion.”

They leave the club when the sky starts to glow with washed out stars, and somehow manage to collectively down three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic at a street side ramen booth before Tezuka walks Fuji to an apartment building that is cleaner, whiter, more modern, and clearly far more expensive that Tezuka’s run down complex.

Under the streetlamp, Fuji tastes like ramen broth and strawberry lip balm and his lips are at once soft and chapped, but the only things that Tezuka remembers afterwards are the feeling of the callouses on Fuji’s hands as he holds them, the nervous flutter of lashes against his cheek, and a flash of startlingly blue eyes when they pull apart. Tezuka immediately pulls Fuji into a hug that is slightly awkward because he has never hugged anyone before, but Fuji doesn’t seem to mind as he wraps his arms around Tezuka’s waist and rests his head on his shoulder.

They hold each other until their noses start to turn red from the cold.

“When will I see you again?”

“Whenever you want to, and even when you don’t.”

Tezuka hesitates. “I would prefer if we meet outside of the establishment.”

“We are in agreement, then.” Fuji’s lips curl into a smile, and Tezuka unwittingly recalls how they first felt against his just moments ago. “I’ll call.”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Fuji says. He extracts himself slowly from Tezuka’s embrace. “You can call me too.”

“I will,” Tezuka promises as Fuji waves one last time before being swallowed by the bright glow of his apartment’s lobby.

\---

Fuji takes him out for another tennis match the next day, and the next, and the next, until work calls and Fuji has to come to the establishment late at night.

Atobe is curious enough about Tezuka’s consecutive absences to pay a visit on the night when Fuji is too busy to steal him away again for an entire day. His presence in the changing room stops everybody in the middle of pulling their shirts on and styling their hair, but he ignores any greetings in favour of making his way steadily over to Tezuka, whose locker is at the back of the room.

“Tezuka,” Atobe proclaims loudly to announce his presence.

“Atobe,” Tezuka acknowledges levelly. “What can I do for you?”

“It has come to my attention that you have recently been booked for a series of dates with one of our guests. It was my understanding that you only wished to perform the role of a footman. Does this mean that you are now amenable to hosting our guests?”

“I will make only one exception; I will not host anybody else.”

“Are you certain? You have earned much more this past month than you ever have.”

“I will not change my mind, Atobe.”

“Pity,” Atobe says. His expression then changes from imperious to concerned, and his voice grows soft and harsh. “Tell me, Tezuka. Are you being blackmailed into this? I protect my customers but my employees are my priority.”

“No. I agreed to it.”

“That’s good,” Atobe declares, and loses his seriousness to give Tezuka a sly smirk. “You’re looking happier these days. Also, convey my regards to Fuji-kun.”

By the time Tezuka has processed what was said, Atobe is halfway across the room and throwing Tezuka knowing looks. Tezuka learns that even he is able to half wish that he has the strength to hurl his locker at somebody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we finally see Atobe, and I'm almost completely certain that everybody knows the identity of that tennis club's owner the very moment he was mentioned. I'm not sure if people play tennis outdoors when it's still chilly outside, but let us, for the sake of the plot, assume that they do.


	5. Chapter 5

Fuji comes a little later than usual that night. He looks slightly worn out, and he lays his head on Tezuka’s shoulder as soon as they take their seats.

“Did your manager give you grief for missing four days of work?”

“How did you guess,” Fuji sighs. “I’ve yet to decide on the photos to display at the show.”

“It would help if you settled on a theme first.”

“That’s the hard part, Kunimitsu. This is my first solo exhibition. They’re going to want something fresh and memorable, but practically every theme in the world has already been explored.” Fuji blows his hair out of his face. “Such is the trade-off if I am to enjoy twenty-first century comforts and your exceptional company.”

“It will be unique if your theme is personal. No two persons lead the same lives.”

“What if I asked you to let me display your picture?” Fuji asks offhandedly.

“I would agree, if you are serious.”

“I don’t even have a picture of you, much less anything worth exhibiting.”

“You can take one now,” Tezuka offers.

Fuji sits up at that. “Really?”

“I would not offer if I did not mean it. You always have your camera with you when you come, so I thought that you might sneak a photo or two because that’s just how you like to pretend that you are cunning. I did not think that you wouldn’t even try.”

“Kunimitsu, whatever photo I take of you will be for my own viewing pleasure alone. Nobody else will be seeing you because then everybody would want you and I can’t have that.”

“You are being paranoid. I am not as attractive as you make me out to be.”

Fuji grins. “You don’t know how charming you are, with your desert dry humour and one point five facial expressions.”

“I am certain that there would still be a large turnout even if your exhibition only contains badly lit photographs of yourself taken in a bathroom mirror with a phone camera,” Tezuka deadpans. “But I think you already know that.”

“That is true. I am aware that I am very beautiful,” Fuji agrees shamelessly, giving Tezuka a playful nudge. “Lucky you.”

“You do not need to remind me. I have the same thought every night.”

Fuji buries his face in Tezuka’s neck. “You need to stop saying things like that. It’s bad for my heart.”

“I can kiss it better.”

“You’d better,” Fuji mumbles against Tezuka’s throat, and Tezuka cradles his face and presses a slow, chaste kiss to his lips. He rests a hand against Fuji’s left breast and feels the flutter of his heart behind his ribs.

“I would, but not here.”

Fuji’s mouth falls open in silent bewilderment. A furious red blush erupts on his cheeks and spreads to the roots of his hair and the tips of his ears and it bleeds all the way down beyond the collar of his sweater. Tezuka lays a kiss on his temple to stop himself from following the course of the blush downward.

“And not tonight. Tonight, we talk, and if you would still have me, we have many more nights ahead of us.”

Fuji closes his mouth and a radiant smile breaks across his face. “I’m holding you to that.”

They end the night with three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic, and Fuji laces his hands behind Tezuka’s neck to crush their lips together in a promise for another time. They never get around to taking that photo.

\---

Fuji comes every night for a week before he takes Tezuka out again to play tennis at the extravagant club. Atobe leaves Tezuka a message on his phone that reminds him to be careful and enjoy himself. Tezuka would have rolled his eyes if he were the type to.

Fuji presents him with a new tennis racket before they start, and Tezuka knows better than to refuse the gift. He spends the better part of an hour getting used to it by rallying with a wall while Fuji sits off to the side and snaps photos of anything he finds interesting—that is to say, he takes more pictures of Tezuka than anything else combined.

When Tezuka has gotten a feel for his new racket, Fuji sets his camera aside and starts his own warm ups while Tezuka takes a sip from his bottle. It is then, with the promise of spring in crisp late winter air, that Tezuka remembers the short, stunted conversation that he had with Atobe from a week ago.

“Atobe sends his regards.”

“Atobe?”

“From the way he spoke I assumed that you were acquainted.”

“Atobe Keigo?” Fuji enquires further.

“Yes.”

“I had my suspicions that he owned the establishment,” Fuji muses. “Did you know that he runs this club as well?”

Tezuka pauses and his eyebrows fly up. “I did not, but I can’t say that I am surprised. It has his particular brand of flair for dramatics written all over the decoration.”

“I need to thank him; he was also the one who gave me directions to the establishment.”

“Was he,” Tezuka says flatly. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have done so for the money.”

“Whatever the case is, any price is reasonable when it’s your company that I’m buying,” Fuji waves him off. “Atobe can be a complete narcissist but I’m sure he also cares for you in his own way.”

“He does. I’m just not certain that his idea of concern is the same as mine. Rough or smooth?”

Fuji has the first serve this time.

\---

They have dinner at a family-owned sushi restaurant. Fuji appears to know the owner’s son so their drinks are on the house. Tezuka makes the mistake of allowing Fuji to feed him something and quickly follows the rising sting of wasabi up his nose with a tall glass of water. Fuji laughs so hard that he chokes on one of his wasabi rolls, and Tezuka helps him flush that morsel down with a second glass of water and five minutes of soothing back rubs as Fuji continues to hiccup with laughter. They split a third glass of water and a shot of something alcoholic between them before they leave. The owner manages to wrestle a promise out of them to come back.

Tezuka catches a brief exchange between Fuji and the owner’s son during which he learns that Fuji has never before laughed like he just had, and silently vows to do anything within his power to ensure that Fuji remains this contented for the rest of his life. Fuji foots the bill and Tezuka walks him back to his apartment again.

They don’t hesitate outside on the street this time; Fuji breezes through the entrance with Tezuka’s hand in his and tugs him into the elevator with ease. He presses the button for the second highest floor and, as the doors slide shut, pushes Tezuka up against the wall of the elevator to taste barbequed eel and something alcoholic.

\---

Tezuka wakes slowly. The bedding is softer and kinder to his skin than he is used to, and there is something pleasantly warm plastered to his side. He turns slowly to come face to face with a mouthful of Fuji’s messy silken strands. Brushing them out of the way, he learns that Fuji is not as graceful asleep as he is awake, with his mouth wide open and a considerable arc of saliva trailing down and gathering in the hollow of Tezuka’s collar. His head is tilted at an awkward angle to the rest of his body, but it inexplicably only endears him even more to Tezuka.

He strokes the back of Fuji’s neck gently and caresses the arm that is thrown over his abdomen as he reaches for his glasses at the bedside table. Sunlight streams through the blinds in stuttering fragments, illuminating the assortment of succulents that Fuji keeps all around his apartment. Some of them are in bloom. Tezuka remembers enough of last night to recall that the one with the white flower is named after him—Fuji had affectionately called it ‘Mitsu’ before Tezuka distracted him by popping a button on his shirt.

The rest of the room is messy in a way that Tezuka’s inner perfectionist itches to neaten, with all sorts of tripods leaning against one corner, a veritable explosion of camera bags hanging off a wall, a few stacks of what appears to be interior design magazines, two shelves worth of miscellaneous books (with yet more scattered around the floor because apparently Fuji has the time to talk to a footman at a host club but not buy another bookshelf), and an army of shoes half strewn amongst them. A collection of photographs plastered all over the walls impresses Tezuka if not by the expertise with which they were framed then by sheer number alone.

He drifts in and out of sleep as he waits for Fuji to stir. It becomes apparent that Fuji is not a morning person when noon comes and goes and he is still fast asleep against Tezuka’s neck.

It is almost one when Fuji finally makes any sound other than a snore.

“It’s about time,” Tezuka whispers.

“Don’t talk to me about time. We just spent most of last night decidedly not sleeping so I’d appreciate if you took your superior good-morning-sunshine attitude somewhere else,” Fuji mutters under his breath.

“You need to wipe your saliva off before you can expect me to take you seriously.”

Fuji blinks drowsily. “What?”

“You’ve drooled all over me, Shuusuke,” Tezuka says bluntly.

“I’m sorry,” Fuji apologises without sounding the least bit contrite. “The shower is that way.” He points vaguely in the direction of the window and Tezuka can’t help but be amused.

“Why don’t you rest a little longer? You’re clearly not all there yet. Just let me up first. I need to contact my workplace lest Atobe starts to overreact and send his agents to track me down.”

“But you’re so warm,” Fuji complains, but rolls over reluctantly anyway with a drawn-out, longsuffering moan to bury his face in a pillow. “Also, I am so very sore and I don’t think I can go to work today either. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

Tezuka shoots him an unreservedly affectionate smile that goes unnoticed because Fuji is too busy intimately acquainting himself with the thread count of his pillow case, and lays a hand on his waist to give it a gentle rub. “Immensely.”

“You can also explain to my manager why I’m taking today off.” Fuji groans as Tezuka’s thumb digs into a particularly tight spot. “Do that again.”

Tezuka increases the pressure on the sinuous muscles in Fuji’s back, eliciting a sound that sends shivers down his spine. “I’m sure that one day of mysterious absence is nothing compared to last week.”

“You can be responsible for answering the door later, then.” Fuji flops over to face Tezuka and give him a sleepy, crooked smile that is both completely frumpy and completely breath-taking. “Saeki will definitely come to pester me if I don’t turn up by tea time.”

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it,” Tezuka says with an air of finality. He drops a kiss on Fuji’s forehead. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when he comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Fuji is a really, really ungraceful sleeper. He more than makes up for it when he's awake, so it doesn't matter, I guess. One more chapter to go. :) I don't actually have a drawing for the last chapter, though, so your imaginations will have to make do unless I miraculously find time to draw something. Thank you to all my reviewers--you really make my day. Also, if anyone is dying to see Saeki, he'll definitely be in the next chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the reviews (left by sugoi_auriga) indicated that some readers were under the impression that Tezuka got to second base with Fuji. It was actually a home run. However, since I did make it deliberately vague (in order to keep the rating to T), this is an understandable...well, misunderstanding. I thought that having them share a bed was suggestive enough, but apparently not. Sorry. It's a lot more hinted at in this chapter, though. (Although, since it's the morning after--or afternoon after, if you will--, there's not much detail.)

It is nearly dusk when Fuji’s manager comes knocking at his door.

“Fuji! I know you’re in there! Atobe told me you’d be here!”

“I believe your time is up,” Tezuka says as he shakes Fuji awake.

Fuji slings his arm around Tezuka’s waist and mutters sleepily against his hip, “You’re meant to wake me up before he comes. I can’t meet him looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

“You haven’t even rolled out of bed yet.”

“A minor detail.”

“You’ve already slept half the day away. Do you have anything I can borrow? I need to let your manager in.”

Fuji gives Tezuka a once over, and the smile he shoots Tezuka is anything but innocent. “I think you look fine like this.”

“I think you look fine like this too, but don’t think for one moment that I’m allowing you leave this room until you are properly dressed.” Tezuka nudges Fuji upright and, despite Fuji’s struggle to return to bed, manages to usher him into the connecting bathroom.

Before Tezuka leaves him to wash the evidence of yesterday off (and _out of_ , Tezuka thinks, face hot) himself, Fuji points him in the direction of his closet and tells him to take anything that fits. Tezuka notes that Fuji owns a few rather questionable looking outfits and immediately opts to avoid those in favour of the sweaters that look too large on Fuji but would fit him just fine. All of Fuji’s trousers are a little too small but they are better than nothing, so Tezuka squeezes himself into one of the looser ones and hastily leaves the bedroom to let Fuji’s increasingly irate manager in.

“Fuji—,” the manager starts but stops abruptly with his fist in mid-knock when Tezuka opens the door. He blinks, clearly confused. “Who are you?”

Tezuka chooses not to answer. “Please come in, Saeki-san. Shuusuke will be ready shortly.” He closes the door behind Saeki with the same fluid motions that he uses at the establishment.

Saeki continues to stare at him as he sits with great familiarity on Fuji’s sleek black couch. “You know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Rather, I think I know, given what you’re wearing, and I really don’t want to think about it.”

Tezuka thinks that Saeki has made a wise decision, especially given the fact that his clothes from yesterday are still scattered across Fuji’s bedroom floor. “Would you like something to drink instead?”

“No, no. I’m fine. I just need to speak with Fuji about his show.”

“He has yet to come to a decision,” Tezuka informs him on Fuji’s behalf, and takes a seat on the armchair off to the right of the couch.

Saeki sighs. “I thought that might be the case. The deadline is drawing near.”

“He is very aware.”

“If only awareness bred productivity, then Fuji would be the most prolific photographer the world has ever seen.”

“I apologise for distracting him.”

“No, don’t; you’ve been good for him. I haven’t seen him this happy in a very long time. I’m actually here to ask if he would like to choose a theme that revolves around his experiences in the past month. He’s positively sparkling these days—it’s actually rather annoying.”

Tezuka wonders if Saeki means to praise or criticise their relationship. “It might be a little late to start on a completely new theme.”

Saeki laughs. “I don’t think that he focuses enough on any single theme to fill an entire convention centre. At worst, we will just break it up into a continuously changing thematic experience as visitors walk through the exhibition.”

“That would suit his style well.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Saeki agrees calmly, and then breaks out in a dramatic sigh. “But he insists on a single theme.”

“That also sounds a lot like him.”

“It is exactly like him,” Saeki exhales heavily, sounding exhausted, “and that’s precisely the problem.”

Tezuka is about to respond when Fuji joins them in the living room smelling of vanilla and caramel. He imagines that Fuji buys his shampoo from the ladies’ section, and he also imagines that nobody bats an eyelash when he does. “Are you gossiping about me?”

“You wish,” Saeki snorted.

Fuji squeezes himself into the space beside Tezuka and immediately takes his hand in his as if it is the most natural thing in the world. “I hope you haven’t scared him off, Saeki. I intend to keep this one for a very, very long time.” He looks at Tezuka and smiles a smile that reminds Tezuka of honey and wasabi.

Tezuka gives Fuji an unamused look but only moves away enough to give Fuji a little more space. He is rewarded with another smile of false virtue that wouldn’t fool even a child.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Saeki deadpans, and Tezuka thinks that he will like him a lot.

He has three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic from the minibar before seeing Saeki off and falling into bed again with Fuji tumbling in right after him.

\---

Tezuka doesn’t step into the establishment for a week after that because Fuji insists on dragging him to everywhere that is not a host club or tennis club. Both their cameras come with them and they spend too much time trying to draw expressions out of each other to pay attention to delicate frostings on sponge cakes or intricate fountains or clear blue skies.

He likes Fuji’s carefree laughter and the halo that forms around his hair when sunlight shines on it at just the right angle. He forgets that this is a job and that Fuji is paying exorbitant fees to borrow him from the establishment, forgets everything but the feel of Fuji’s lips on his and the slightly uncomfortable press of cameras sandwiched between them.

They visit the family-owned sushi restaurant over and over again until Fuji’s friend—Kawamura—learns their order by heart and sets out three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic for them every night.

When the week is over, Tezuka has a feeling that Fuji will find any excuse to fill his entire exhibition with photos of him in all manner of embarrassing poses.

\---

Then, all of a sudden, Fuji doesn’t come and doesn’t take Tezuka out on dates and even Shiraishi grows worried about Tezuka’s constant stoic presence at the entrance of the establishment. He remembers that customers do not stay forever, and endeavours to forget that he had ignored this against his own advice.

Tezuka doesn’t touch alcohol.

\---

Tezuka is at the convenience store buying lunch when he sees Fuji running into his apartment building dressed in a horrendous combination of a sweater that is far larger than his usual ones and royal purple pants. (He remembers that Fuji and Atobe are acquainted and wonders, briefly, if Atobe's flamboyance is infectious.) He quickly pays for his purchase and is halfway across the road when Fuji emerges from the apartment complex looking like he hasn’t slept since Tezuka last saw him.

“Kunimitsu!” Fuji exclaims when he spots him. The smile on his face is tired but beatific, but it might just be because he hasn’t seen it in a week. Tezuka hurries toward Fuji, scoops him up in his arms, and desperately crushes Fuji’s slighter frame closer to his. Fuji doesn’t seem to mind that his feet are no longer touching the ground, so Tezuka just continues to hold him until his arm is sore but still he doesn't let go.

“You look terrible,” Tezuka blurts out, but what he means is that Fuji looks exhausted and worn out and stretched thin and Tezuka just wants to wrap him up in blankets and bring him breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed.

“Thank you. You certainly know how to charm a man,” Fuji chuckles, looping his arms around Tezuka’s neck.

“I’ve missed you,” Tezuka forces himself to say.

Fuji presses a sloppy, contented kiss to his jaw. “I’ve missed you too. So much. Saeki is a slave driver.”

“Go out with me,” Tezuka whispers into his ear. He has had a long, lonely week to think, and he has come to the conclusion that keeping both Fuji and his current job is a terrible idea. “You’ve done enough. If you’re going to insist on paying my debts and funding my therapy anyway, we’ll make this real. I don’t want to keep being reminded that it’s just a work arrangement whenever I’m out with you. Just be with me. I don’t need to be paid to spend time with you, so let’s cut out the middle man—Atobe earns enough as it is.”

Fuji laughs, and it is a quiet but immensely happy sound that borders on slightly hysterical, like his already tenuous grip on reality has loosened even further in the past week when he spent coffee-fuelled days finalising details with Saeki. “I was wondering when you’d ask. Yes, yes, yes! Yes to everything. We’ll grow old and ugly together and buy a farm in the middle of nowhere. You’ll insist on mountain climbing even though your joints are about as nimble as a wooden stick and I’ll tell you that you’re gorgeous everyday no matter how white your hair gets or how many wrinkles you have, because all of them will be laugh lines that I’ve etched onto your face with the power of love.”

“Speak for yourself. You can grow old and ugly on your own. Don’t liken me to you.”

“You’ve gotten snarkier since I last saw you,” Fuji exclaims delightedly, and kisses him fully on the mouth. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Tezuka slowly sets Fuji down on his feet but continues to rest his hands on his waist, then feels Fuji shiver beneath the thin material of his sweater and hugs him closer, making a mental note to swaddle him up in his jacket once the urge to hold him has passed. Right now, he can’t bring himself to let go. “How did you know about this place?”

“I made Atobe tell me,” Fuji says offhandedly, and Tezuka wonders if he ought to check on Atobe. “I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to be my plus one for the exhibition.”

“Do you really need to ask?” Tezuka says, eyebrows rising.

Fuji beams up at him. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

\---

On the night of the opening Tezuka reluctantly thwarts Fuji’s last minute advances in favour of ensuring that they arrive on time. He steadfastly maintains that their punctuality has absolutely nothing at all to do with Saeki’s preference for hour-long lectures.

Tezuka is grateful to note Saeki has managed to overthrow Fuji’s idea of filling the entire exhibition hall with photos of only him. Instead, there is only one, a picture of him in mid-serve, and the rest of the space is filled with close ups of people he does not recognise. In the middle of the exhibition hall is a tiny two by three photo of Fuji wrapped up in white sheets and dead asleep with a trail of saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth. There is no caption.

No one stays here very long, chased off by an uncomfortable sense of intruding upon something far too intimate. After having seen this particular photo, Tezuka raises an eyebrow at Fuji, who pretends not to have noticed, and instead slips an identical photo into the pocket of Tezuka’s dress pants.

\---

As the visitors start to leave, Fuji pulls Tezuka toward the tiny two by three. He draws him down into a slow, languorous kiss that leaves them both utterly breathless, and when he finally allows Tezuka to breathe again he says, “This is for you. The centre of me and everything that revolves around it is for you and you alone. Anyone that tries to come in will have no choice but to leave—only you are welcome here.”

Tezuka allows a smile to stretch across his face. Before he descends down upon Fuji’s mouth again, just before he slips his tongue between Fuji’s parted lips, he whispers, “I’m home.”

\---

There are no glasses of water or shots of something alcoholic that night.

\---

Tezuka wakes slowly. He has grown used to the softness of the bedding, and there is something familiarly warm plastered to his side. When he looks at the person asleep next to him he thinks back to a place in Tokyo that sells dreams and remembers a time when he was right in the middle of one that seemed too good to last.

He knows that he cannot live in dreams forever, but he also knows that reality can be far better than any dream of dazzling chandeliers and three glasses of water and a shot of something alcoholic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to find an English equivalent of ‘tadaima’ but it’s really, really hard because it’s a really vague term. I wanted to convey a mix of ‘here I am now’, ‘my home is with you’, and ‘you are my refuge’, but I wanted to express the sentiment in English, so…yeah. In my experience, tiny pieces of art are very, very intimate and rather uncomfortable to look at for long especially if it depicts a subject in a vulnerable position. I figured that Fuji would be exactly the type of person to go around declaring his undying love in such a roundabout fashion, and, in response, Tezuka would be at once unamused, exasperated, and unspeakably fond. Thank you to everyone who left reviews and kudos--you are wonderful.


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